Babydoll
by polydimensional
Summary: "Ken doll slid a plastic hand slowly under little Kelly's dress while Barbie watched from the corner, a smile plastered on her perfect face." Before Kira became a prominent figure in the world of crime, he received an anonymous video tape asking him to kill Misa Amane's parents. Warning: contains physical and sexual child abuse.


**Listening to: **"Sweet Dreams" by Emily Browning

* * *

It was Christmas, and Light Yagami was having a rare day off.

School had been out of session for the past week, and most of the students he forced himself to mingle with, for the sake of keeping suspicion unaroused, were either out of town or out of the country to celebrate the holidays. His parents were at the Tokyo shopping center with his younger sister, purchasing some last-minute gifts for relatives before they all gathered for dinner the next day; he stayed behind under the pretense of wanting to get an English paper done ahead of time. His true motivation was to spend the day with his Death Note uninterrupted; three hours later, however, he discovered that he had pretty much exhausted the list of criminals he had chosen to eradicate before the year was over. He didn't want to use all his free time ridding the world of human vermin; his father had mentioned at dinner the night before that his team was considering investigating students in their search for Kira. Light did not want to take any chances.

So he put away the black notebook and spun in half-circles on his computer chair, glancing around his room for something else to pass the time. Before she left, his mother had mentioned that a package had arrived for him that morning; he had tossed it on his bed, unopened, too preoccupied with the fatal notebook entries he had planned out for the day to pay it much notice. _Probably from some university wanting to recruit me_, he thought, with his usual vain candor. But then, why not a simple envelope or brochure instead of a package?

Curiosity piqued, he got up and walked over to his bed, picking up the package with renewed interest. It was rather clumsily put together, a frayed manila envelope cut up and taped back together to form some semblance of a parcel.

There was no return address, only Light's own address and, scribbled awkwardly on a worn corner of the envelope, nearly out of sight but not quite, the letter K.

At first, Light was angry. He scowled at the smudged 'K,' furious that someone would jeopardize his identity by sending this package to his own home, where his father could easily read the cover of the package and make his own interpretations about the significance of the letter K.

Then he was terrified.

How did this person know to send a package intended for Kira to Light's address? Who could have possibly figured out his identity? He dropped the package as if scalded by it and collapsed back on his computer chair, his brain going into overdrive. How? Where did he go wrong? He was anything but careless - he had taken painstaking measures to keep Light Yagami's life completely separate from and unrelated to Kira's. As far as he could tell, no one suspected a thing - not his father, not his mother or sister, not his classmates - no one! So who?

He massaged his temples and breathed deeply through his nose. Okay, so someone had figured out who Kira really was. There was no need to panic. All he had to do was figure out who that someone was, and get rid of them before they told anyone else. Simple.

Perhaps that someone did not even know about the Death Note; maybe they only knew Kira's identity. Or maybe they didn't know at all - perhaps they only suspected him, and were setting traps blindly to try and confirm their suspicions. They probably had no proof.

He allowed himself another deep breath. As the oxygen replenished his brain cells, his mind began to formulate new and more reasonable hypotheses. Maybe this person was not looking to catch Kira at all - maybe they wanted to enlist his help, instead. He bet the package was filled with money, money that someone wanted to exchange for someone else's life. Yes, that was probably it.

Only one way to find out.

Another deep breath. In and out. Then he stood and picked up the package again. He tried to open it calmly, but his nerves betrayed him and the tape made for a formidable foe. He ended up tearing it open with his fingernails, ripping the yellow envelope apart with reckless abandon. He turned the package inside out and shook its contents onto his bed.

There was nothing but a black cassette tape and a sheet of folded notebook paper. When he straightened out the paper, a black and white polaroid fell out. It was of a man and a woman, neither of them smiling. The man had his arm wrapped loosely around the woman's waist, touching but not touching her, obviously wanting to be anywhere but next to her. The woman's hand was placed lightly on the man's arm with equal disdain. Behind them, Mount Fiji stood in somber glory.

Printed in dark pink ink on the notebook paper were two names:

_Motoshi Amane_

_Elise Amane_

He blinked at the names, then smirked. So he was partially right - whoever sent this package was not out to catch Kira, but to ask for a favor instead. No money, but that was alright - Kira didn't work for money. He worked for justice.

He picked up the cassette tape next, turning it this way and that with a sort of nostalgic curiosity. He hadn't handled tapes since his Disney days so many years ago, and reacquainted himself with it as if with an old friend. He had a feeling that this tape would not feature lovesick mermaids or pink elephants on parade, however. Further inspection of the tape revealed that it actually harbored an even smaller tape, most likely from a video camera.

_A home video?_ Light wondered skeptically, then shrugged, tucked the tape under his arm, and began walking down towards the basement where he knew his father still kept their old VHS player. He took the picture and notebook paper with him.

He settled back on the musty basement couch a few minutes later, fumbling with three remote controls as he tried to figure out which one operated the VHS. After a few unsuccessful attempts, the blue screen finally flickered to a static background, then stabilized itself until the cassette tape was in-tune and playing smoothly. On the bottom right hand of the video in blocky, yellow text was the date: DEC 25, 1992

And beneath that: MISA'S 5th BDAY

A small girl with blonde hair and big brown eyes, presumably 'Misa,' sat on a stool in the middle of a room, her stocking feet swinging gently, still too short to even brush the floor. She twirled a stubby finger around her pigtails as she hummed quietly to herself. Every so often she would glance at the camera, almost anxiously, then quickly look away and hum a little louder, as if trying to reassure herself. Around her, the legs of several tripods peaked out from underneath blankets protecting them from dust, and a plastic toy box sat in a lonely corner of the room. In another corner, a music player was set up on a small stand, a pair of bulky headphones and several cassettes stacked around it.

"Hey," a voice suddenly crooned, startling both Misa and Light. It was the man behind the camera. "There's the birthday girl. Big day today, huh, Misa?"

At the mention of her name, the girl seemed to perk up. Her face brightened into a relieved grin, and her blonde pigtails bobbed as she nodded happily.

"Uh huh!" she chirped. "Misa is gonna be five today!" She held up five fingers for emphasis.

The man behind the camera chuckled. "Wow, five already? You're a big girl now, eh?"

Another bob of the pigtails.

"Is Misa gonna have cake?"

"I don't know, Misa. You know Mommy doesn't want you eating sweets."

She deflated slightly. "But it's Misa's birthday," she whined, puckering her rosebud lips into a grieved pout.

"Sorry, sugar. You know Mommy's rules. You want to be a model when you grow up, right?"

She didn't answer, choosing to swing one of her legs instead. Then she brightened again.

"Can Misa have a party? With a pony and a clown and a - "

"No, Misa," the man behind the camera interrupted. "No party. We talked about this, remember? We don't have that kind of money."

The girl pouted again and said no more.

_They seem to have enough money for all those cameras_, Light interjected silently. He was growing bored; this seemed like just another bland home video that parents gushed over and forced everyone who attended their dinner parties to sit through and watch. So why was it sent to him? Perhaps the names on the notebook paper were not people the sender wanted him to kill after all; perhaps they were the senders themselves. Parents of Misa who wanted to show everyone how _adorable_ and _cute_ their daughter was. But then, why not save it for the unfortunate victims of their dinner parties? Why show him?

Confused and slightly irritated, he juggled the remote in his hand and settled back against the couch. Five more minutes, he decided. Then he would stop wasting his time with this menial task and do something more productive. Like research more criminals to add to next year's death list, for instance.

"Aw, come on, Misa," the man behind the camera cajoled. "Don't be that way. Tell you what, I'll try to talk Mommy into letting you have some ice cream later. How does that sound?"

The girl shrugged listlessly.

"Misa." The man behind the camera was getting stern. "No pouting in front of the camera, okay? You're a big girl now, and big girls don't pout."

Misa, if anything, only pouted harder.

"You know," the man behind the camera continued, "Being a big girl comes with a lot of responsibilities. Did you know that?"

Silence. She didn't even glance up.

"A lot of responsibilities," he continued, "towards your school, towards your elders. Towards your parents. Especially towards your parents."

At this, Misa looked up from beneath her lashes, all traces of brightness gone from her face. Wariness was beginning to seep into her large brown eyes.

"That's right. Responsibility. It's a very important part of being a big girl. And some of those responsibilities include respecting your parents. Listening to them." The man behind the camera paused. "Pleasing them."

Wariness quickly hardened into fear in the girl's eyes.

"That's right, you know what I'm talking about." The man behind the camera began to breathe more heavily. "You know exactly what I'm talking about, don't you, Babydoll?"

This nickname seemed to shut the girl down. Her eyes widened, then lowered until she was staring at her stocking feet, which stopped swinging.

"That's right," the man behind the camera repeated. "That's a good girl. Now, why don't you sing us a song like a good girl, hm?"

The girl chewed her lip and glanced nervously up at him.

"Go on," he coaxed. "Sing something pretty for the camera. Don't be shy, Babydoll."

She rubbed her feet together and fidgeted on the stool, glancing from her feet to the camera and back down again, seemingly at war with herself. The obedient side apparently won, and she opened her mouth and dutifully began to sing Mary Had a Little Lamb in a small, quavering voice.

"Louder," the man instructed. "Like you do during bathtime."

Without pausing, she increased the volume of her voice, closing her eyes and allowing it to strengthen of its own accord.

"There you go, that's better," the man praised. "Now, how about you open your mouth a little wider, hm? How wide can you open your mouth?"

Eyes still closed, voice still strong, she opened her little rosebud mouth as far as it would go, like a cherry blossom opening up during the wrong season.

"Perfect," the man purred. "Stay like that."

Then there was the sound of a belt being unbuckled. Of pants being unzipped.

Light sat up immediately, staring transfixed at the screen as realization slowly dawned on him.

_Is he...what is he...?_

_Oh._

_No._

_What...?_

_Is this why...?_

_Fuck..._

He watched uselessly as the video shook a little, presumably from the man setting the camera down, and then he watched the man walked slowly, predatorily, towards the little girl. She continued to sing, oblivious. But that wasn't true, was it? No, of course not. She wasn't oblivious, she knew exactly what was coming. She also knew she couldn't do anything about it.

The man paused next to his daughter, admiring her open mouth, then turned and walked over to the music player instead. He ran his finger down a stack of cassettes, mumbling the titles to himself and clicking his tongue at the ones he didn't like, before finally settling for a Eurythmics tape. He popped it into the music player and rubbed his hands together as Sweet Dreams filled the room.

_Sweet dreams are made of this..._

_who am I to disagree..._

He made his way back towards his daughter, body swaying slightly to the beat. At the change in music, Misa stopped singing her nursery rhyme but kept her mouth open, as if previous experience had taught her that there was no use in closing it.

_Some of them want to abuse you..._

_Some of them want to be abused..._

With every step the man took, Light inched further to the edge of the couch, a solitary audience looking in on a horror show, with no way to call out for the actors to stop or for the curtains to be drawn. And he watched everything.

He watched the man rub a lock of blonde hair between his thumb and forefinger.

He watched the hand move down to caress her cheek, and the other hand move down to lower his pants.

He watched the man stick two fingers in her mouth, swirling them around on her tongue, then rub his already hardening member with them.

He watched the man bury his wet fingers in her blonde hair and force her head down, down, down until her rosebud mouth was around his member.

And he watched a tall, blonde woman glance into the room, then lean in the doorway and cross her arms.

He watched her survey the scene with impassive eyes.

He watched her do nothing.

When the screen flickered back into static, Light could do nothing but sit and stare.

That evening, Light excused himself from dinner and hid himself in the darkness of his room. He didn't feel like eating.

* * *

Unfortunately, there was more to the video. A lot more, in fact, as Light unwittingly discovered when, after a few seconds of staring at static, another video warped into focus.

_Tomorrow_, he had told himself. _I'll watch the rest tomorrow._

Tomorrow was now today, and Light found himself back in the basement, trying to work up the nerve to press the play button on the VHS player. Upstairs, his mother and sister clamored around the living room, going from one side of the room to the other and no doubt leaving armfuls of colorful tinsel and ornaments in their wake. The Christmas season was approaching quickly, and according to them, any moment not spent hanging decorations was a moment wasted. His father was pulling a late shift down at the station, partly to avoid getting roped into the decoration madness but also because, according to him, any moment not spent looking for Kira was a moment wasted.

Which left Light in the basement, alone but not really alone - because the blonde girl

_Misa_

was there with him, just on the other side of the television screen. Just a press of a button away. Only, he was having trouble pressing that button, convinced that whatever followed would be just as awful, possibly worse, as what he had witnessed yesterday.

He toyed with the remote in his hand as Ryuk suddenly phased down from the ceiling.

"Hey," he croaked in his usual loud,

_(Louder, like you do during bathtime)_

gravelly voice. "Got any apples?"

Light kept his eyes fixed on the blue screen. "No," he answered simply. The remote was getting sweaty in his hand, but just as he couldn't bring himself to press the play button, he couldn't bring himself to press the off button either. He was stuck on the crossroads of indecisiveness, one foot on the gas pedal and the other on the brake.

"Watcha watchin'?" asked Ryuk, floating down to do a handstand on the arm of the couch. "Porn?"

Light flinched involuntarily. Yes, for all intents and purposes, that was pretty much what he had watched. Except the only feeling it aroused in him was disgust.

Ryuk cackled, thinking he had caught Light in the act, but he only received a glare in response.

"No, that's not what I'm watching," Light spat. Ryuk held his hands up in defense, balancing the rest of his body on his head.

"Alright, alright, sorry. Jeez, touchy." He clicked his tongue and pivoted off the couch, floating in a cross-legged position in front of the television. "What, then? Crime? I thought you were taking a break until next year."

"I am. I was." Light's brow furrowed. "This is different."

"O-kay," Ryuk said, stretching out the first syllable. "So, what are you doing then?"

Light debated silently with himself, then let out a defeated breath and pressed the play button before he could change his mind.

"I'm watching a video."

Again, the screen flickered shakily from static to video until the video won out and began playing.

The date read JUN 15, 1994 in its yellow text; there was no subtext. The blonde girl was sitting on the floor, her feet encased in high-heeled sandals and splayed awkwardly in front of her. Apparently unable to draw her knees to her chest due to the high heels, she had her face buried in her hands instead. A large sunhat flopped over her eyes, and her long blonde hair covered most of her face, but it was impossible not to see that she was crying.

Although this was not the same room from the previous video, there were still blanketed tripods set up all over. A vanity mirror was pushed up against one wall, its table covered with various cosmetics, hair products, and jewelry. A wardrobe stood in one corner of the room, a full-length mirror in another. In the middle of the room was a stage of sorts - really, just a row of wooden crates covered in carpeting and made to look like a stage.

And this time, there was a woman behind the camera.

"Come on, Misa!" she shouted. She spoke English and had an American accent. "We aren't finished yet. You still have three more dresses to model, and I want these pictures to look good."

Misa sniffled and wiped her face, leaving a black smear of mascara across her cheek.

"Oh, great," the woman behind the camera groaned. "Now I'm going to have to redo your make-up. Misa, stop crying this instant! You're ruining everything! You think those people are going to want a face like that on their magazine covers?"

When Misa didn't respond, the woman huffed angrily and slammed the camera down on the table next to her, causing the video to shake violently. She stomped over to her daughter with a wet rag and tore her hands away from her face, scrubbing the make-up off with unnecessary roughness.

"Ow, Mommy!" the blonde girl whimpered. "That hurts Misa!"

"Oh, be quiet, you're the one who went and messed up her make-up," the woman snapped. "And when are you going to stop with this third-person nonsense? It wasn't cute three years ago, and it certainly isn't cute now." Another fierce scrub with the rag. "You think you're being cute, is that it? Well let me tell you something, you little - "

Whatever degrading insult she was about to impart on her daughter was mercifully interrupted by the sound of a doorbell ringing. The woman huffed and threw the rag in the blonde girl's face.

"Clean yourself up," she ordered, then marched out of the room with all the petulance of a bear interrupted at its meal. Misa sniffled again and dragged the rag gently across her face, attempting to feel with her fingertips for any residue left behind. She took her hat off and set it beside her, looking around anxiously as she scratched her scalp, as if itching was considered a cardinal sin. It probably was, for her. A few moments later, the woman came breezing back in, carrying a magazine sleeved in plastic. She pulled the plastic off in one fluid motion and dropped the magazine at her daughter's feet.

"Look at that, Misa," she said. "You see that? That could be you, if you would just do as I say and stop being such a crybaby all the time."

Misa had the rag pressed against her face and did not look at the magazine. It was difficult to tell from the video, but it appeared to be children's fashion magazine. On the cover was a young girl, a little younger than Misa, with curly brown hair adorned in big, yellow bows. She was wearing a frilly white sundress and smiling with all her teeth, as if she hadn't a care in the world. She probably didn't, and that was why Misa didn't want to look at her. Didn't want to look at that vibrant, innocent smile, knowing her own molested lips could never shape themselves into a smile like that.

The woman suddenly reached down and yanked the rag out of Misa's hands. She slapped her sharply across the face. "I said look at it!" she screamed. "Look at it! Little shit! Why don't you ever do as you're told? You're fucking impossible!"

Trembling, Misa leaned her head towards the magazine until the tips of her hair touched the floor. The woman gathered a fistful of blonde hair in her hand and slammed her daughter's face against the magazine. Misa shrieked.

"Fucking impossible!" the woman repeated. Misa cradled her nose with both hands and looked up at her fearfully. The woman glared back. "Well, you got what you wanted, little shit. Modeling session is over for the day." She looked down at her watch. "It's time for lunch anyways. Get your fat ass in the kitchen."

The girl didn't need to be told twice, scampering out the door and out of the camera's view as fast as her small legs could manage. The woman picked up the camera and followed her.

Inside the kitchen, Misa stood next to the refrigerator, staring up at it hopefully.

"Please, Mommy, can Misa have a big lunch?" she asked. "You didn't let Misa have any breakfast, and yesterday you only gave her carrot sticks for dinner."

"And why do you think that is?" the woman snapped, setting the camera down on the kitchen counter. "If you want to be a model, you have to look like one. We want you to wear cute clothes without being mistaken for a whale, don't we?"

She emphasized the 'whale' part with a pinch to Misa's stomach. Misa shrank away.

"Yes, Mommy," she whispered. Tears began to well up in her eyes again, no matter how valiantly she fought to keep them at bay. She looked up at the woman mournfully. "But Misa is so hungry!" she wailed.

For a moment, the woman said nothing, simply staring down at her daughter with a blank expression. From the safety of his couch, Light wondered if the woman had reached her breaking point and was going to deck Misa instead of just slap her. But then a smile crept over the woman's face. And that was even worse.

"A big lunch?" the woman mused. "That's what you want, huh?"

Misa's eyes brightened with hope, and she nodded eagerly.

"Alright then."

She opened the refrigerator and took out milk, eggs, sausage, vegetables, butter, cheese, lunch meats. Opened the cupboard and took out flour, bread, sauce jars, a bag of white rice, miso noodles, egg roll wraps. And with every item she took out, Light felt his stomach sink lower and lower with dread.

The woman reached over, one arm filled with sandwich items, and switched off the camera; the screen erupted briefly into static, then started the other half of the video. The video faded in and out of focus for a few moments before finally settling on a clear view of the kitchen, where a vast array of food was spread over every inch of the table. Ham and cheese sandwiches, a pot of fried rice, a plate piled high with pancakes, another plate of sausage and eggs, a large bowl of miso noodle soup, a plate of eggrolls, a tray of buttered toast and biscuits with jam. And seated at the head of the table was Misa, looking nowhere near as hungry as she had before.

"Bon appétit," the woman said sarcastically, handing her daughter a pair of chopsticks. "Dig in."

Misa looked at the chopsticks, then at the month's worth of food in front of her, then at her mother.

"Why, Misa, whatever is the matter?" the woman exclaimed in feigned surprise. "I thought you were hungry! Didn't you want a _big lunch_? Well, there it is. Now eat it." She smirked cruelly. "All of it."

Misa looked at her with wide eyes. Her hand tightened and loosened on the chopsticks. She stole a glance at the kitchen door as if planning to make a break for it, and even shifted her body closer to the door. But then her stomach rumbled and she slumped against the table, defeated.

She dropped her chopsticks into whatever plate was closest to her - the sausage and eggs - and brought a small bite to her mouth.

"What do you say, Misa?" the woman prompted, her tone sickly sweet.

"Thank you, Mommy," Misa responded lifelessly, and took another bite.

The camera switched to static and back again, and at this point, Misa had managed to force down the entire plate of sausage and eggs, most of a ham and cheese sandwich, one pancake, a few pieces of toast, a couple bites of a biscuit, two and a half eggrolls, and a bowl each of fried rice and miso noodles. Her torso leaned heavily against the table, and the chopsticks were slack in her hand. Her face was pale and glistened with a sheen of sweat, and she was taking light, uneven breaths, as if afraid she would be sick if she breathed too deeply.

"Oh, Misa, you aren't finished already, are you?" The woman grinned. "Why, you've only just begun! You'll hurt my feelings if you don't finish your lunch."

Misa shook her head weakly and looked at her mother with pleading eyes. She remained silent, afraid to open her mouth lest she regurgitate all the food she had binged on.

The woman clicked her tongue in mock disappointment. "Looks like you weren't so hungry after all." She turned away and rummaged under the sink. "What would all those models think if they saw you like this, I wonder? They don't let hunger turn them into greedy little pigs. Bet you feel pretty disgusting now, hm?"

Misa swallowed thickly and nodded. She seemed too afraid of getting sick to allow herself to even cry.

The woman reemerged from beneath the sink, a bucket in her hands. She set it down in front of Misa and crouched down to her level.

"Listen to me, Misa," she said, her voice suddenly very quiet and serious. "Anyone can wear pretty dresses and smile in front of a camera. But not everyone can look good doing it. Because looking good means making sacrifices. It means saying no to the things you like, like food and candy and playing. And it means that if you make a mistake, you have to be willing to do whatever it takes to fix it."

She straightened up and held her daughter's chin in her hand.

"Let's fix your mistake, Misa."

And with that, she forced her daughter's mouth open and shoved two fingers down her throat.

The result was instantaneous; Misa gagged once and then vomited everything she had eaten into the bucket. She whimpered and squirmed, trying to dislodge her mother's grip on her chin, but the woman held firm. She forced the fingers down her throat again, and again, and again until there was nothing left for Misa to bring up, then left her daughter to sway over the bucket, shocked and dazed.

Before she turned the camera off, the woman crooned one last thing into her daughter's ear: "You're one step closer to perfection."

The screen erupted into static.

Black and white shadows danced on Light's grim face. He tented his hands under his chin and sighed deeply.

"Well," Ryuk remarked, "That was interesting."

Light's eyes narrowed at the boredom in the shinigami's tone. "It was _interesting_?" he repeated incredulously. "A woman abused her daughter with food and essentially brainwashed her into believing that starvation equals perfection, and all you have to say is _'that was interesting'_?"

Ryuk merely shrugged, undeterred by Light's righteous fury. "You think little blondie there is the first girl to be treated like that?" He scoffed. "Don't be so ignorant. I see things like that all the time. I see things a lot worse than that all the time."

Light's stormy expression wavered, but he said nothing.

"These things happen all the time, Light," Ryuk continued. "To all kinds of people. You can scribble away in that notebook as long as you want, but you can't stop them all. Besides, this video was taken years ago. That woman is probably already dead."

"No," Light answered suddenly. Confidently. "That woman isn't dead. Her husband isn't, either."

He tossed the remote control from one hand to the other, eyes gleaming.

"They aren't dead yet."

His mouth twisted into a malicious smirk.

"But they will be."

He pressed the off button and plunged the basement into darkness.

* * *

Christmas Day. Light lounged on the couch in the living room with his father and a few of his uncles, half his attention focused on pretending to be interested in the latest family gossip, the other half fixed on the television, which was tuned to the news channel. The anchormen were updating their viewers on the current natural and man-made disasters occurring around the globe, schooling their faces into expressions of deep concern or open relief at appropriate times, although it seemed to demand a great deal of effort on their part. They launched into a heated debate about the dangers of microwaves and how it would affect the future of Japan, lectured about the importance of giving during the holiday season (but only during the holidays - stories about soup kitchens and homeless shelters were never mentioned at other times), then settled into the calm routine of the weather report.

Light's uncles guffawed loudly at a police joke his father had told.

There was the gentle clink of dishes and the musical laughter of his mother and aunts from the kitchen.

And then...

"In other news, a couple was brutally murdered in their home last night," an anchorwoman began, face suitably grieved. Light leaned forward, sweat beginning to collect on his palms. He could feel his heart beat against his ribcage, a thrill of anticipation coiling in his stomach.

"According to police reports, an escaped convict, Mamo Otouri, broke into the home of Motoshi and Elise Amane and stabbed them both before turning the knife on himself. None of them survived."

Almost immediately after, the anchorwoman launched into a story about a new brand of toothpaste that was beginning to show unexpected adverse effects, and the deceased Amanes became old news and were promptly forgotten.

Light stood up from the couch, turning his face away from his family to hide the self-satisfied smirk that had consumed it. He excused himself to his room and allowed himself a few moments with the Death Note, looking down at the two new names written on the bottom of the page.

_Motoshi Amane_

_Elise Amane_

"Merry Christmas, Misa Amane," he whispered to the page, before turning to the cassette tape and wrapping it, the photograph, and the original sheet of notebook paper back in the yellow envelope and hiding it under his bed. He would burn it later, when everyone was asleep. Burn all the evidence. But not the memories.

There had been a third video on the tape; the last video. It was most likely taken without the knowledge of the deceased Amanes, and captured the extent of a shattered innocence more accurately even than the recorded abuse itself.

In the video, Misa was playing with Barbie dolls, only her arms and lower body visible, her face cut off from view. Behind her, the toy box from the first video was open, and several costume dresses hung from the sides. They were made for children, but someone had stitched and tightened and cut them to make them appear more...provocative. More suited for a pedophilic Playboy shoot instead of an innocent evening of trick-or-treating as Sailor Moon or a little cowgirl. And scattered on the floor around the toy box were a pair of handcuffs, a ball gag, a pink tube of lipstick, and several penetration toys.

Misa was silent, but the game she played with her dolls spoke more words than she ever could.

She sat her Ken doll next to little Kelly. She moved his hand up Kelly's thigh and under her frilly pink dress. She hummed the first verse to Sweet Dreams. And she forced Kelly's head down, down, down onto Ken's lap while Barbie watched from the corner, a smile plastered on her perfect face.

That was when Light tore ribbon after ribbon of black film out of the cassette tape and thereby sentenced it to burn. There was no need to keep the tape as evidence, not when he had the perfect punishment for the vermin responsible for it. Not when he had the Death Note to purge the world of the human filth that caused it to fester and rot.

He stroked a finger across the two names in the black notebook, like the caress of an avenged lover, before returning it to its hiding spot and retiring to his bed, editing and revising his mental list of criminals he planned on killing next. He lulled himself to sleep with thoughts of death and justice and blonde hair.

Above him, Ryuk shook his head and rasped out a chuckle. "I'll never understand you, Light. But you sure are_ interesting_. Hyuk hyuk hyuk!"

* * *

When he finally met her in person, he didn't recognize her. She was bubbly, exaggeratedly happy, and spoke in high-pitched tones, exclamations sparking forth from her rosebud lips like fireworks on a summer night.

But her hair was familiar. Blonde, pulled up into two pigtails that bounced with every excited bob of her head. And her eyes, large and brown and filled with warmth, were also familiar.

When she wrapped her arms around him and whispered _thank you_ into his ear, he did not respond. He feigned ignorance. He acknowledged nothing.

But he thought to himself: I am the ultimate judge.

I am the savior of the innocent.

I am the god of a fair world.

I am..._Justice_.


End file.
